


Clothe Your Loins

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: As the previous tag attests, Baby Peter, Bottom Yondu, Dirty Dancing, Exhibitionism, Frottage, God fucking dammit, Jealousy, Loincloths, M/M, Multi, Possessive Behavior, Public Nudity, Ravager Dads, Semi-Public Sex, Shitty Ravager Dads, They Try Though, This is a filthy & self indulgent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 04:50:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6501460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a party. There's a loincloth. There's Ravagers and expensive shit placed in close proximity. What the hell do you expect?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothe Your Loins

**Author's Note:**

> **One-shot that ought to be a two-shot. I wrote this to keep me entertained in between tapping up the next chapters for that sick-fic I wrote, and Middle Age Spread. Based on a prompt from Guardiankink - I'll put it at the end. Enjoy!**

“Why the fuck’m I wearing this again?”

Kraglin had to blink out the window as Yondu readjusted his thong for the fifth time in as many minutes. A perfect flipped simulacra of the ornamental hotel lobby hid the tortured wasteland beyond. However, given that the reflectivity of the glass was on full, staring at the glass instead of Yondu was not an effective means of distraction.

He cleared his throat. “Because,” he said, “we’re joinin’ the quadrant’s crime families for their annual fancy-do, and the theme’s _home planets_.”

Yondu didn’t seem satisfied with the answer. He tugged at the loincloth, attempting to wriggle it further up his abdomen – but that just revealed more blue thigh (tough, scarred, _strong_ blue thigh), and…

Kraglin could only be grateful his own Xandarian attire sat at the opposite end of the skimpy-scale. That, and the pants were tight –they’d disguise his boner better than any baggy Ravager jumpsuit.

Morlug had assured him his suit was the height of fashion on Xandar. Kraglin suspected she might have been messing with him. The disgusting navy outfit had elbow-pads everywhere but on the elbows. Even the Collector would turn his nose up at it. Seeing he had sent the invitations, Kraglin supposed he’d impart his critique in person, once they made it to the rendezvous.

Sighing, Kraglin attempted to find something to focus on other than the textured gold rope holding the two halves of Yondu’s loincloth together. It rode low. Pinching the flesh over his hipbones, like it was squeezing, teasing, looking to make Yondu groan…

_Dammit._

This was going to be a long day.

“Why’re you staring at Yondu’s butt?”

A _very_ long day.

Peter exited the bathroom, drying his hands on his new tux. The question rang loud enough that several of the guests (who, like them, had yet to join the queue at the ballroom’s entrance) turned to stare. Kraglin could smack the little blighter, he really could – except these posh crime-boss types weren’t like Ravagers. They were born into wealth. Raised to be _sophisticated_ and _genteel_ , and all those other multisyllabic words that the bulk of the _Eclector_ ’s population struggled to pronounce, let alone spell. They didn’t get their hands dirty, not when they could hire folks to do it for them. They might object to Kraglin giving Peter a cuff around the ear, no matter how well-deserved. “Shut it,” he growled instead.

Yondu lifted his arms, deploying an optical barrage of sleek, smooth blue. The divots in the small of his back were shadowed as if thumbs had pressed there hard enough to bruise. Kraglin itched to replace those phantom hands with his own. Yondu must have developed sudden psychich powers because he arched, faking a stretch, and smirked over his shoulder. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he tried. Kraglin replied with a heartfelt scowl, folding his hands in front of his crotch and thinking of dead kittens. Dammit, there were _people_ here!

Okay. So that was a mite hypocritical. Kraglin delighted in molesting Yondu around crew – it was the only time the captain got agitated outside of a losing bid on a new trinket. But _he_ was careful. Just little touches, here and there. A finger tracing Yondu’s inseam under the table. A grope as they passed one another in a crowded corridor. An unannounced knead of his groin at canteen that’d earn a jerk and a glare, but be rewarded come night shift. It was the threat of discovery that made it exciting.

This? This went beyond any _threat_.

A Skrull in an evening gown bit her lip. Her husband scoffed as he covered their daughter’s eyes. Kraglin, shrinking in his boots, wished he were anywhere else.

This was _humiliating_. Yondu’s audience had been in the multiples before his latest little show (although Kraglin charitably afforded half their number to his captain’s reputation. They’d worked for all of these rich goons at one point or another, and they were more than aware of what Ravagers were capable of – even Ravagers out of uniform). More still turned when Yondu executed his finale. He did so with the ease of a born showman, spinning to Kraglin so fast that tails of the loincloth lifted like the arms on a spiral galaxy. They kept the gravity low at functions like these, to aid in the maintenance of hair-buoyancy and so forth. Anyone standing behind the grinning Centaurian would’ve been treated to an extended view of how his garment was tethered underneath.

Kraglin told himself mortification made him flush. He told himself that repeatedly; it didn’t make it any truer.

A young family boss – an early inheritor, no doubt at the expense of the don before him – nudged his consigliere. They exchanged words, the don ogling openly. Several of the women (and indeterminably gendered beings) took shaky sips of their welcoming drinks, glancing at them through lowered eyelashes.

Kraglin found his fists knotted in his jacket sleeves, hard and tight as fossils. Yondu being Yondu, beamed and shot Kraglin a wink.

“Kraglin?” whispered Peter, tugging on his hand. “Kraglin, you’ve turned a funny color. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” said Kraglin through gritted teeth. He shook away the little pink paw and marched off, plucking their invitations from his pocket. “C’mon, boss. Les’ get this over with.”

***

Peter was twelve. With Yondu at thirty-something and Kraglin between the two of them, he did his best not to feel immature when he announced himself at the door as Yondu’s partner for the night. The bouncer swiped their invite-cards with polite indifference.

Once they were inside, Kraglin drew Peter into his side before he could drift towards the crowds. While he doubted anyone here would kidnap the kid – too used to sitting on their asses and letting lackeys and bodyguards do the work – old habits died hard. If Yondu was busy being center of attention, babysitting duty fell to his second. Needs must – and it gave Kraglin an excuse to shake his head when Yondu bounded over and tugged him towards the middle of the bustling atrium.

“C’mon; we better get mixin’ and mingling. Can’t see the Collector nowhere, but I ain’t checked the dancefloor yet… Perhaps a drink’d help my eyesight? You wanna buy?”

Kraglin plucked blue fingers one by one from his sleeve. “We got ages before we meet him. And anyway, we’re working.”

Yondu rolled his eyes. “This don’t count as _work_. We’re here t’pick up job specs and pre-payment. Don’t even have to be sober.”

“Well, I couldn’t afford the shit at this bar. Not with what I got on me.”

“An’ I got _nothing_ on me!” Yondu spread his arms to demonstrate. As if Kraglin was unaware.

“I’d realized,” he replied, glaring at a nearby gaggle of girls. They nudged a woman in Yondu’s direction, giggling in voices too shrill for his audial register. Kraglin dug a pinkie in his ear and did his best to ignore them. “Look, y’know I don’t like this sorta gig. I’ll wait for the Collector over here.” He pointed. Several tables had been laid out in the shadows of the pillars that supported the vaulted obsidian dome high above. “Wanna come?”

Yondu shrugged. He hooked his thumbs in the loincloth’s rope. “Nah. Catch ya later.”

“Can I come with you?” Peter piped up. No doubt he wanted to explore. The guests were decked in finery from all corners of the quadrant. They filled the magnificent room with bioluminesce, trailing tentacles, and the blurred scents of moss, blossom, and rotten eggs – each more intriguing than the last to a Terran still new to this galaxy. Yondu scrumpled his hair, and laughed obnoxiously when Peter pouted and ducked away.

“Maybe when yer old enough to wing.”

“What does 'wing' mean?” But by then, Yondu had gone.

 _Of course_ , thought Kraglin sourly. _If I ain’t gonna fork out hard-earned units, Yondu’ll flirt his way around the entire dancefloor until he finds someone who will._

Jealousy was stupid. Jealousy of Yondu was downright self-defeating. Yondu, who delighted in nothing more than prodding at the buttons of anyone who give two shits about him until those shits started to wear mighty thin, would act up to get Kraglin’s attention as soon as he realized it riled him.

Best not to indulge him. Kraglin turned to Peter. “Quill?”

“Yeah?” Peter hunched in his jacket. “Guess you don’t wanna hang out with me either.”

“Gotta admit, it ain’t on my to-do list. But y’know what? Captain’s being a jerk. So we’re gonna go have us some fun on our own. How’s that sound?” Peter was bouncing in his squeaky suit-shoes before Kraglin had finished his speech.

***

Letting Yondu loose in a room full of men and women dressed to the nines in their plants’ ceremonial regalia was like releasing a toddler into a candystore. Kraglin could see his fingers twitching from the other side of the ballroom. That was one plus side to Yondu’s scanty ensemble though: no place to stow loot.

He and Peter didn’t have that problem.

“This’ll be good practice,” he told the boy, kneeling in front of him. They were face to face, close enough to hear each other’s whispers. “You remember what I told ya?”

Peter grinned. “Yep! Be smart, be quick, don’t get caught – but if you do, blag like anything!”

“Good. Off ya go then.” He kept his face stoic as Peter trotted away, but couldn’t resist the fond chuckle. Kid wasn’t all that bad. Kraglin had had his reservations about this newest Cute Thing in Yondu’s collection, but who knew? Peter might surprise ‘em all and become a good Ravager yet.

Slumping on the nearest chair, Kraglin surveyed his fellow wallflowers. Disgruntled partners. Jilted lovers. Old lonely men tied to their families by blood alone. Great company he’d chosen – but Kraglin trusted his gawky frame about as much as an innocent-looking bilgesnipe. He’d probably smack a Kree in the boob and be sentenced to death-by-Accuser if he danced.

He kinda wished he’d risked it though, watching Yondu.

He gave his last partner – the girl with the giggling friends – a kiss to the cheek, and loped over to the next. She was a dark Shi’ar, who’d been admiring him since he walked through the door. Kraglin saw Yondu’s lips move.

_Wanna dance?_

_I thought you’d never ask_.

Music blasted from invisible speakers set directly into the floor, a pounding banshee-mix of styles as hypnotic as it was atonal. The dancing was similarly eclectic: some couples waltzed, others tangoed, more still swayed cheek-to-cheek. One pair – a green furry critter not much taller than Peter and their reptilian partner – broke out a rigorous synchronized breakdance. Yondu and his new girl span past them, heedless. They weren’t the best on the floor (nor the most graceful, nor coordinated, nor practiced. If it weren’t for Peter, Yondu wouldn’t have danced in _years_ ). But there was something effortlessly sensual in the way Yondu moved. The Shi’ar made a perfect partner: giving where he took, taking where he gave.

Kraglin had never hated anybody more.

Yondu moved, powerful as a tiger, the girl stalking after him in rapacious glee. Their hands tethered them, one blue, one brown, and Kraglin had to fight to stifle his amalgamating fury and arousal. Yondu’s loincloth swung with their sways. One moment it eclipsed him modestly; the next, the entirety of his side gleamed bare – but for the woman’s hands, which stood out like silhouettes on the azure hide.

Kraglin wanted to march over and rip her away.

Kraglin didn’t want Yondu to know he’d gotten to him – jackass would gloat for a week.

Kraglin wanted to scare the Shi’ar, to detail every torture he’d put her through if those dainty fingers wandered lower.

Kraglin wanted to take her free hand and join them.

Kraglin wanted to punch Yondu. But most of all he wanted to bend him over the bartop, flip his loincloth, pluck that tight red thong to one side, and show every man, woman, and other such being who the Ravager Admiral belonged to.

Yondu rocked his hips in a tight circle, bumping the girl’s own. He gave her his full attention, ignoring the glances of those around them, his eyes half-lidded and the sultry red of bonfire embers. Kraglin knew what he was up to. He was acting the part of the exotic gentleman he most definitely wasn’t. A show. An act donned for her pleasure. The real Yondu emerged when he broke the careful inch between them, grinding on her in a savage tease, then brushed the hair from her forehead. He hooked her earring on the way.

Kraglin, already on his feet and raring to barge between them, paused.

What would he do? The pearl was too small to tuck in the tight loincloth strap, and Yondu wasn’t one to toss spoils.

Yondu palmed the pearl. He dodged a kiss with a cough, slipping it into his mouth without the girl’s notice. Sly fucker. Kraglin crossed his arms, amused. When Yondu span her, dipped her, and gave her a saucy grin, she blinked at his broken and silver-dipped teeth - but the pearl remained unseen. It remained unseen as Yondu broke away from her, blowing a kiss in apology. It stayed hidden as he extracted himself from the grip of the haughty young don with a bullshitted excuse. In fact, the pearl lurked under Yondu’s tongue until he was right in front of Kraglin. Then he grabbed his mate’s ears and passed it across in the simplest way he knew how.

“Hide that,” he murmured as they parted. Kraglin, whose icy comment had been swallowed by the wet slide of lips, burbled something incoherent. The spittle-string joining their lips snapped as Yondu retreated, the pearl sealed behind Kraglin’s teeth. With jaw clam-tight, he couldn’t exactly say anything – only watch as Yondu patted his cheek, fingers lingering on the fresh-shaved softness, and strutted off to dirty dance with the Don.

He returned ten minutes later, by which time the pearl was in Kraglin’s pocket. He hadn’t wanted to watch this time. “Well?” Kraglin asked, posture spelling his lack of care. Slouched semi-reclined with legs propped on the chair besides him, it must have been almost convincing. “Did ya get what’chu wante – woah!”

Yondu straddled his lap. He kissed him again, wet and messy, lips bruised as if someone else had been chewing on them. Kraglin saw red. But unless he’d developed spontaneous synesthesia, he also tasted metal. He frowned at the distinctive shapes of two Da’ahckza family seals. “Cuff-thlinksh?” he spluttered, once Yondu’d deposited his load. “You shtole his cuff-thlinksh?”

“Uh-huh.” Yondu rocked where he sat. If he weren’t so damn heavy Kraglin would fidget too, make him feel what he was doing to him: all eight inches of it. “Yer a decent bank, Krags. Think I’ll make a couple more deposits.”

“And then we can break into the penthouse?”

Yondu grabbed Kraglin’s watch. “We only gotta hour before the Collector shows,” he said. This time, it was Kraglin’s turn to smile.

“Then sir, you better hurry up.”

***

Yondu, true to his word, made another three drop-offs, bringing their tally to two earrings, one set of cufflinks, a necklace of illegal (and thus highly valuable) bilgesnipe-ivory, and twelve diamond-inlaid buttons off a gentleman’s shirt. Kraglin raised an eyebrow at those. They were passed across one by one, each of Yondu’s kisses a soft pressure offset by the absence of itchy stubble. Kraglin stowed them in his cheeks until he couldn’t fit any more, then shoved at Yondu’s shoulders until he got the hint.

“Yer good at deepthroating, but ya can’t hold these?” Yondu asked, after spitting the final button into his palm. Kraglin glared, feeling like a chipmunk. Yondu shuffled forwards until they were chest to chest, trapping Kraglin against the back of the chair, and held his hand demandingly under his mouth. “Give ‘em.”

 _Why not just spit them out yerself_ , Kraglin wanted to ask – but he had to admit that had Yondu chosen that path, things would’ve been a lot less fun. Kraglin let the chunky, gem-crusted discs slither into Yondu’s palm. “Where’d ya get these?” he asked, once he could talk without getting one lodged in his throat. “Rip someone’s shirt off?”

Yondu, admiring the saliva-smeared handful, sniggered to himself and opened Kraglin’s jacket. He found the hidden pocket – after a fair amount of unnecessary groping – and dropped them to tinkle against the other prizes in their collection. “Wouldn’t ya like t’know?” he asked.

Yes, Kraglin would. But he’d prefer to whisk him to one side and have him ride his dick for real, rather than this infuriating imitation. “C’mon,” he growled, smacking his thighs. “Les’ go. Half an hour left.” The blue flesh quivered, loud cracks drawing the attention of the tables’ other occupants – but this time Kraglin didn’t care. Let them see. Let them see him push Yondu off him, scarcely giving him time to find his balance before grabbing his bicep and tugging in the direction of the hotel doors.

***

The elevator to the top floor was empty and spacious, one wall taken up by a mirror. Kraglin couldn’t keep his hands off his captain long enough to note much more about it. Yondu wound up backed against his reflection, wincing as bare shoulders thumped chilly glass. Kraglin initiated the kiss this time, and he marked each hungry join of their mouths with a sharp, punishing bite, as if he were looking to tear him apart.

 _Mine._ That was the only thought he could process – the only thought that mattered. Yondu gave up a throaty moan and rutted against Kraglin’s crotch. His loincloth flapped lose, but there was evidently a jockstrap attached to the thong, otherwise there’d be a tent forming. Kraglin smiled, teeth clicking Yondu’s. He walked spiderish hands under his skirt to find out.

The grunt when he palmed his trapped cock was fucked-out already. “Dammit,” panted Kraglin, taking one of Yondu’s earrings in his mouth and tugging until the lobe ached. “Wanna mark you up, cap'n. Get’chu covered in my bruises, my cum, _mine_ …”

“Not in the damn elevator.”

The bing of the door announced their arrival. It came sooner than Kraglin expected, given that their ascent had been smooth enough that he didn’t feel it.

…Or, it might be a maid making the most of the party to ride the guest lift. She dropped her dustpan as she saw them wound around each other, Yondu as good as naked with the loincloth hidden and Kraglin wedged between his legs. “Oh, s-sirs, I’m so sorry, I’m so –“

Kraglin pressed the _continue_ key, and the doors gushed shut on her stammering apologies.

“Ain’t gonna ask her to join?” Yondu asked. Kraglin, framing each nipple with thin white fingers before dipping to nip them, shook his head.

“Don’ wanna share,” he growled. He was too busy worrying the dark nubs to see Yondu’s pleased grin.

***

The penthouse suite cracked in under a minute. Albeit a minute full of swearing, as Yondu stopped Kraglin’s pawing long enough to jimmy the lock. But then they were inside.

“Huh,” Kraglin said. “Fancy.”

“Aw, were ya expectin’ it to feel like home?” Yondu looked around the room, stepping onto the plush carpet. His bare toes wriggled, carding fur between them. “Lookit all this. Hell, there’s so many places I wanna fuck, we’re gonna need a return trip.”

“Think we can manage that. Same time next year?”

Yondu spent too long deciding whether he wanted to get the bed nice and sticky for the next unlucky occupant, or else make use of the carpet – which, judging by the way he dug his feet into it, would be coming with them at the end of the night. Kraglin spared it a critical glance.

“Uh, it’s a bit big to fit in my pocket.”

Yondu tapped his chin. “We could always get the boys to storm the lobby while we fly a M-ship outside, then bust the window and roll it out…”

Kraglin, stalking over to him, covered his mouth. “Enough work-talk, sir,” he said. He managed to make the plea sound like an order. Yondu’s eyes flashed dangerous. Then he rubbed himself the entire length of Kraglin’s body, bare skin tacking on the ugly suit and eyes ruby slits. His tongue traced the loveline on Kraglin’s palm. When he purred – sound rumbling from within his bare chest, so low Kraglin could _feel_ it – Kraglin couldn’t restrain himself any longer. “Bed?” he said.

Yondu looked disappointed, but Kraglin made up for it. As they approached the broad circular mattress, elevated at a perfect height on swooping curves of coloured glass, Kraglin didn’t make to clamber on. Rather, he bent Yondu over it.

“There, boss. Now ya can stand on the fucking carpet. Happy?”

Yondu cackled. He bowed until his ass brushed Kraglin’s cock. “You better have a rubber.”

The scrape of Kraglin’s zipper had him angling his weight further onto the mattress, hips lifting as he balanced on his toes. His legs parted, welcoming Kraglin’s intrusion. Kraglin stroked himself lazily to the sight.

He imagined squirting all over him, painting him with seed and scent. Then twisted the fantasy. He’d finish inside: squeeze cum forth until Yondu’s belly swelled… Then lead him back to the party. He’d like to see him dance after _that_. After all, showing off in front of a crowd was one thing. Walking through one with jizz rolling down your legs was quite another.

“Ya don’t wanna be drippin’ when we talk shop with the Collector?” Kraglin asked, collecting slick from the bulbous tip of his cock and slathering it up and down. “Thought you liked show n’tell.”

Yondu shuddered. Smile curling wolfish, Kraglin traced the zig-zag of old lash strokes down his back until they reached the loincloth rope. It was far from the most modest garment, but Yondu was far from the most modest person. Now that he had him where he wanted him, pinned and spread for his eyes only, Kraglin could appreciate that.

“Take it off,” Yondu gasped. Kraglin flipped the tail-end over his back. Admiring the clench of his asscheeks and the split of crimson between them, he hoisted the waistband high and toyed with the knot tying thong to belt.

“Do I gotta? Think I’d rather keep it on. Like ya said, sir – it gets me goin’.”

“S’gonna get dirty, idiot –“ But Yondu didn’t buck him off. He exhaled and stretched flat against the sheets. His blue nails gathered them, bunching them towards him. Folds converged like strands of web with Yondu at their center, and when Kraglin dug into his crack and retrieved the thong, pushing it to one side as he eased in a dry finger, Yondu swore and rolled his implant over the coverlets: the very image of conflicted lust.

 _Good,_ thought Kraglin. He sucked on the finger and returned it to dabble. _Now you know how it feels_.

But time was of the essence. Thankfully, Yondu abandoned any apprehensions once Kraglin replaced the spit with lube. “Ya brought it,” he gasped. He twisted onto his side, muscles clutching Kraglin’s fingers as if they didn’t want to let them go. “You been plannin’ this?”

Kraglin didn’t dignify him with an answer. He tugged the digits free – the slurp made them grin – and smeared the excess on his cock. “Twenty minutes,” he said. Then wriggled his cockhead through the loosened opening and split him neatly to the root.

Air punched from his captain as if he’d been crushed. The thong scraped Kraglin’s groin, his balls smacking heavily against Yondu’s, bundled as they were in cloth. Yondu's earrings bounced and jangled like windchimes, and the loincloth’s fringed bottom stuck to his sweaty shoulderblades.

Admiring the contrast of red-on-blue, Kraglin hummed in satisfaction. He ground deep before withdrawing and plunging in again. It was fast, jarring, intense. He could hear Yondu’s breath catch at the extremities of the thrust: a choke when he was left gaping, a glottal gasp when Kraglin fucked him full. His erection lay sandwiched between belly and sheets. Kraglin took extra care to roll his pelvis whenever he hilted, forcing Yondu to rock against the bedclothes. The quiet string of expletives were more than worth the extra co-ordination.

“So,” he huffed, when the time on his clock said five minutes to, and Yondu’s ears were tipped in navy. “You want it inside or out?” Yondu, struggling for more friction, panted in delirious need. He humped at the unsatisfying silk-smooth sheets – and Kraglin pressed _in_ , exerting firm, milking pressure on Yondu’s prostate. Seeing as Yondu was too busy shuddering and moaning to answer his question, channel a flurry of clenches, Kraglin decided it was his duty as first mate to make the decision for him.

***

“You’re fired.” Kraglin, plastered deadweight on his back, snorted. He mapped Yondu’s vertebrae with sloppy kisses.

“Yer joking.”

“I ain’t. Dammit, Krags –“

Deep in post-coital bliss, Kraglin let the griping wash over him. He pulled out slow, steadying himself on Yondu’s hips, and massaged at the warm skin beneath the loincloth rope. A quick wipe on the sheets and he was clean – barring the sweat circles under his jacket arms and the sheen on his face and chest.

The same couldn’t be said of Yondu.

He didn’t budge as Kraglin extracted himself. Just stayed on his front, too boneless to roll to either side, and continued his half-audible complaint to the sheets. He didn’t even bother to shut his legs. When Kraglin stepped away he treated himself to the sight: Yondu’s rim, stretched and indigo, swollen and shiny and so obviously used. Frothed lube and cum dribbled between his thighs. Without Kraglin keeping it out the way, the thong slipped naturally into place. It teased the puffy entrance, sawing his pucker open with every rub, and Yondu squirmed in a futile effort at lessening the stress on oversensitized nerves.

That would be fun to walk with.

Kraglin smacked his ass. Well, more of a pat, to be honest. Anything more risked evisceration when the captain was in this mood. “C’mon, sir. You better clench up tight – we’re already late. Might have t’run…”

Yondu might not have been ready to stand, but he proved he had recovered enough to donkey-kick.

***

Kraglin was still rubbing his jaw when they made it to the ballroom.

This satellite moon had once been a terraformation. Something had malfunctioned with the rad-deflectors early on, and now all plantlife was twisted and wasted, the atmosphere ruddy poison. But the oversaturation of air particulates made it damn flammable. Perfect spot for a fireworks display. They’d increased the transparency of the ceiling – which turned out to be a massive sheet of thermochromatic glass, kept warm during the main event but cooled off for this interlude. Overhead, vast fires blasted across the mars-like sky. They trailed and span spritelike, and burst as bright as supernovae to a chorus of _oohs_ and _ahs_ below.

Kraglin didn’t watch. His attention was honed on the man in front of him. Yondu was doing his best to stride about with his usual exuberance. Creamy droplets highlighted his thigh muscles and speckled the floor behind him. Luckily the lights had been dimmed. Not even the Don accosted him – although a quick perimeter check revealed he was nowhere in sight. The only looks thrown their way were glares as they trod on people’s toes.

“Don’t know what they’re complainin’ about,” said Yondu, once they reached their destination. He perched gingerly on a barstool. “Should try dancin’ without shoes on. Think I broke a coupla footbones.”

“No, that was jus’ from booting me.”

Yondu snapped his fingers for a drink, glowering. “Uh-huh. You deserved it.”

Best not to argue. Kraglin reached over, movement concealed by the high lip of the bar. He hooked the loincloth rope. A single tug had Yondu biting his lip, hands laid flat on the table. He managed to flash the bartender a toothy grin as the thong rubbed his pucker, unfurling the fucked-loose opening like a flowering bud. He nodded at Kraglin. “He’s payin’.”

Jackass. Kraglin scoffed, but waved his palm over the unit-extractor. He morosely watched his riches be frittered into the hotel’s coffers. “Ya seen a guy with funky hair round here?” he asked. “Likes to wear a boa. Prob’ly carrying a big case of some sort –“

“Over there,” answered the bargirl. She nodded to a dim corner. The Collector’s boots were all that protruded into the light, his legs illuminated whenever a firework flashed and boomed.

“Awright. Les do this.” Yondu downed the drink and stood. His face scrunched. Kraglin, inhaling, caught a whiff of jizz and stale sex. Of course – he’d cum in his jockstrap. Things must be getting mighty sticky in there. The Collector always sounded nasal though, so it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility to pray he nursed a permanent cold.

“After you, captain,” he said.

***

Permanent cold might’ve been a tad wishful. But the Collector prided himself on his manners. If they’d dared enter his lair like this – Yondu swatting at the lovebites on his neck and chest and muttering some nonsense about midges, Kraglin nervous and jittery but far, far too smug – he might’ve been offended. Yet so long as they were fucking on other’s property, it wasn’t his problem.

He thus didn’t comment when Yondu took the proffered seat, wrinkled his nose, and scratched grumpily at his crotch. Kraglin, delighting in his misery, didn’t either.

“Well?” said the Collector, once they were as comfortable as they were going to get. His white shock of hair quivered as he popped the clasps on the case, revealing several amber spheres. He slid them close enough to inspect but not so far that he couldn’t yank them out of reach. “What say we start talking business?”

And so, business they talked. Yondu adjusted to the discomfort (and, knowing him, began to enjoy it). Negotiations were made. Prices were offered, haggled down, haggled up, reissued completely and compromised on. Hands were shaken. And at long last, they were free to go. Then the Collector made one of his delicate, inquiring little coughs. Anyone else, and Yondu’d continue on his merry way. If folks wanted him to pause a while, they could quit with the faff and say so. But this was an Ancient, and Ancients were best pandered to. Sighing, he dumped the suitcase on the table once more. “What?”

The Collector didn’t look up from where he was stirring his tea. His baggy eyes were as dark as the kohl around them, pupil melded into iris and white. “Excuse me for being curious,” he said, tapping the spoon on his saucer and taking a dainty sip. “But didn’t I give you three tickets?”

**Author's Note:**

> **The fanart comes from a scene I was thinking up in the pre-party stages which never got written (and probably never will be) which involved Isla almost getting chucked out the airlock for daring take pictures. Fun fun fun.**
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> **Prompt: Anything where Yondu has to wear a traditional Centaurian ceremonial outfit thing**
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>  **So**
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> **Loincloth**
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> **Lots of jewely**
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> **Piercings everywhere**
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> **He ain't pleased**
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> **Kraglin is**
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> **Kraglin fucks him by flipping up the back of the loincloth and pulling the thong out theway**
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> **I love comments, as you probably know! Leave me some? x**


End file.
